/lit/ - Literature

I am 28 years old. I started reading about 8 years ago. I really want to write a novel but I feel I am (a) too poorly read, and (b) too old. I work a 9-6:30 job as well, which really hurts. I’m also feeling pressure to “settle down,” find a girlfriend and marry her and have a family. But I really want to do this.
Any advice you may have would be much appreciated.

How do I live a literary lifestyle, aside from writing and reading? Here’s what I’ve started doing so far:
>Smoking handrolled cigarettes
>Incorporating french phrases into conversation
>Move alone to big city
>Leave apartment completely undecorated but for bookas
>No gf
>Black coffee 10 cups / day
>Have a few whiskeys every night to build up my tolerance
>(Currently applying to) jobs as a security guard
>Reading the Bible before bed
>Corduroy pants, even in summer
>Hand writing letters to old lovers and friends back in Ohio
>Constantly reading botany and ornithology handbooks
>Arguing with my father
What else is required so that I may truly live the part of a writer?

>>10760466
>the day when the weirdness and unpleasant nature of the creator shone through a work of art
>it's reddit narrating farming dire rats in World of Warcraft

What's the meme trilogy of /sffg/?

>>10639554

>Ad Hominem, but it's made of straw men

>>10573095

>Most of OP present different versions of solipsism

>>10438969

How would we know, if we're not supposed to have read these things?

Tfw strolling through Central Park, NYC, on a crisp winter morning, only to see an old man sitting on a bench smoking Marlboro Reds and feeding pigeons. I am struck with a sense of familiarity. I stop before the man and face him. He is twig thin, his right eye twitches, his thick gray hair adds to his erudite aura.

>M-Mr. Pynchon? Is that you?
>What? He says
>Are you Thomas Pynchon? The Jove of the Western Canon?
>Leave me alone.
>Sorry. If you are him, I wanted to say the Jessica/Roger Mexico love story changed my life.

He takes a long drag from his Marlboro Red, his calm eye following the erratic pigeons. Then he lifts his gaze to me, and flicks the cigarette into the garbage can, a move strictly forbidden by NYC Ordinance. Suddenly, as if choking, he let out the strangest noise:
>YUKYUKYUKYUKYUKYUK
And then flew away, above the beautiful skyscrapers of New York City, where I live and where Thomas Pynchon lives as well.